The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(27)

“You’re awake, m’dear,” Daltry said.

From his slurred accents and the way he fumbled to close the door behind him, she guessed that he had, indeed, been cavorting in the tavern below. She rose—and had to steady herself against the table when she swayed.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said.

“Eager for the proceedings, eh?” he leered. “What a good wife you are.”

She decided not to disabuse him of the notion, especially since uncharitable thoughts had begun to play in her head again. She’d managed to keep them in check during their long journey—no easy feat. For one, the earl wasn’t renowned for his wit or conversation. While his mind stayed well within the boundaries of convention, one couldn’t say the same of his hands. It had taken no small amount of maneuvering on her part to finish the journey in the same intact state with which she’d started it.

Experience had given her insight into the workings of the male mind. As the saying went, no man would buy the cow when he could have the milk for free. (See? She had learned from her mistakes.) Ergo, she’d remained firm in her stance that there would be no preview before their wedding night.

Now that she was legally bound him, however, he had husbandly rights. Tipsy as she was, she saw her situation with sudden clarity. It was… disheartening. Daltry had never been the most prepossessing of men. Around her height, thinning on top, and protruding in the middle, he looked every day of his two-and-fifty years.

She told herself that his physical characteristics mattered not: his title was his redeeming attribute. Yet she couldn’t help but wish that he would take a tad more care with his personal appearance. That he’d try to, well, do better with what Nature had seen fit to give him.

Instead, he seemed to have some aversion to personal hygiene. What hair he had lay in limp strands across his bald pate. His complexion was both florid and greasy, his light blue gaze bloodshot. His cravat was splotched with stains, and several buttons had popped off his waistcoat. As he closed in on her, it became obvious that he hadn’t bothered to wash since their arrival. He reeked of sweat, dirt… and, Dear Lord, vomit?

Her stomach lurched.

His hand shot out, his stubby fingers grabbing her braid. “Always had a liking for blondes.”

To avoid smelling him, she tried breathing through her mouth. “Thank you. I managed best as I could without a maid.”

“Good thing you didn’t bring one. Only get in the way, eh?”

Tamping down nausea, she said, “I had a nice bath after my nap. Perhaps you’d care to—”

“No need.” He let go of her hair, began shrugging out of his coat. “Not when I’m ’bout to get dirty again.”

Her belly quivered at his coarseness. Daltry had never been a refined man; now that they were married, he was apparently going to drop any pretense of being a gentleman.

“Perhaps we ought to have a glass of wine first,” she said faintly.

“Don’t play coy with me, young lady.” He fumbled with buttons, managing to divest himself of his waistcoat. “The fact that you’re a shameless doxy is why I married you in the first place.”

Her cheeks flamed. “I’m not—”

“I ain’t deaf; I’ve heard the rumors about you. And you approached me, brazen as can be, making me an offer I couldn’t refuse. What does that make you, if not a trollop?” He smirked, his hands on his waistband. “But worry not: I like a hot-blooded wench in bed. And it’ll amuse me to watch those uppity relations of mine swallow their spleen when I parade you in front of them.”

He’d married her to annoy his family? The revelation was unsettling, to say the least. Especially given the social influence wielded by the dowager countess, Lady Charlotte Daltry, and Mrs. Antonia James, Daltry’s formidable aunt. The ladies hosted a salon so exclusive that it made getting vouchers to Almack’s seem easy by comparison. If Rosie wished to have the ton at her feet, she would need the dowager and Mrs. James as allies not enemies.

Tentatively, she said, “Perhaps our marriage will help mend fences—”

“To hell with those bleeding hypocrites!” Daltry’s words boomed with drunken belligerence. “Treated me like dirt ’til I got the title. The smell of trade offends them, but that don’t stop ’em from asking for handouts. Well, they ain’t as lily-white as they seem. Got mud on their shoes like everyone else, and I know that first-hand. Know all their dirty secrets.” His lips stretched into a satisfied smile. “Now they’ll have to kowtow not only to a merchant—but to his trollopy bastard of a bride as well. Hah!”

Rosie cringed—and that was before Daltry shed the rest of his clothing.

Dear God. Even the hazy focus of wine didn’t improve her first view of a naked male body. Then he turned, giving her a full view of his backside. Eww. She’d had no idea that a man was that hirsute… all over.

With shaking hands, she reached for her wine glass and polished it off.

“Enough delay. Time to pay up, young lady.”

“Could we… dim the lights?” she whispered.

“I told you to dispense with those virginal sensibilities—”

“I am a virgin,” she burst out.

“We’ll find out if that’s true soon enough. Not that I’m particular—as long as you’re a fine breeder, eh? But all right,” he muttered, “just this once. Off with those clothes and into the bed, you hear?”